


Wraithcall

by Elke Tanzer (elke_tanzer)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, Whumping, one of my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-29
Updated: 2002-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elke_tanzer/pseuds/Elke%20Tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drawing past the edge between reality and the shadow world, Frodo begins to doubt what is real.  (Ringwraiths are scary!)  No slash, just some vague allusions to Frodo and Sam's care for each other. Suitable for all readers, unless ringwraiths give you nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wraithcall

**Author's Note:**

> The otherworldly piping wails of the wraiths and the screaming of their dark steeds are the stuff of nightmares. What could be worse than being a wraith? The horror of consciously becoming one, being unable to cry out and seek the comfort of one's friends, unable to judge what is truly real and what is shadow, trapped within one's own mind. Thanks to my wonderful betas J and Anne, and also to GW Katrina, the attagirl provider I needed. May you have as many hobbits as you can handle.

I didn't know pain came in different colors. Wish I'd never found out. Icy black and smoldering darkness swirl and writhe into fiery white and freezing light... and the changes are so disorienting. If it would just settle itself into the normal dull ache of an injury, I think I might keep my mind.

My mind... a luxury at this point. Points... points... what was it about that dagger's point that did this to me? Strider said something about a Morgul blade...

Ah, those words have done something to me, just by thinking them. A thrumming ache, deep in the bones of my arm where the cold has seeped. It feels as though, if I could only move it, the ache would lessen, but I can't move that arm. Why do I feel so disconnected?

I'm jostled again. Looks like this slope's too steep for Bill, and Strider's slung me over his shoulder again. What is that light on the horizon behind us? And why is the day so darkening grey?

Grey. All around me is grey, except for the single Grey one that I wish were here. Gandalf, where are you? Something horrible is following us...

Am I seeing things? The horizon seems to crawl with darkness. If it's real, I don't want to see it. I close my eyes tight, gritting my teeth against the wail struggling to escape my parched throat.

Whenever we stop briefly, Sam tries to give me water, or a bit of food. It doesn't taste right, and the water doesn't seem to slake my thirst. My throat is so tight I can hardly draw breath. Is it because I'm trying not to cry out?

I cried out, at first. I wept some, and called for Gandalf. I remember that clearly. And Strider told me to hold on.

I'm holding. I think I'm holding.

We've been going like this for days. I've lost reckoning of how many, but we haven't stopped to rest often enough for the others. I don't think any amount of rest would help me.

The world is changing. The sunlight isn't golden any more, and the day's warmth does nothing against the chill I feel spreading from the wound in my shoulder. A creeping, seeping numbness, a consuming emptiness, makes its unstoppable way through veins and tissue. My very bones twinge in constant protest, but it does not slow its advance.

My thoughts are clear, startlingly so. Yet my body doesn't seem real... only the pain in my shoulder and arm is real. There are times it takes all I have simply to gasp for air.

When did the sun go down? I'm slumped over Bill's back again, and the ground we travel seems flat now. Dim trees on either side... I can see mist slipping between them, and shapes dancing at the edges of vision, off in blurred distance and shadow which is somehow brighter than our moonlit path. Is any of this real?

I can't move much, but I seek out Sam, Merry, Pippin, Strider with eyes that do not seem to want to focus. They're dim outlines only. Why can't I see them? I turn my head frantically, lurching forward, trying to see. Trying to reassure myself that I'm not alone. I nearly fall from Bill's back, and there's a hand at my shoulder, steadying me. At least I can still feel that shoulder. The other has this not-feeling... of shimmering darkness, of nothingness so deep that every color, every flavor, every texture I have ever known has been swallowed by it and roils within.

Please, this needs to end.

I know what will happen, now, if I cry out. I remember...

Was it yesterday? Or a fortnight ago? Something jarred me, and I cried out. I meant only to make an inarticulate sound... an involuntary "Ah, I hurt!" sort of a gasp, but what came instead was an eerie cry, like that of the wraiths. A haunting call that echoed from the very rocks and hung in the air as if waiting...

And it was answered.

I heard it, we all did. But I think I was the only one that understood it. One of them had heard me, and understood. It heard my call, and it knew the pain I feel. It spoke to me of that pain, of unending years of it, of being consumed by it. Of giving in.

Please, I don't want to give in.

I hear them, I feel them, I'm seeing them whenever I open my eyes, though I know they are not near enough for me to see them. Or not near enough for the others to see them... no one should be able to, from this distance. But their world is nothing like the one we know...

I try to think of that world, of the Shire. Of Sam's lush garden, of the green rolling hills, the trees and valleys and rivers, of Bilbo's table covered over with papers and maps. But nothing looks quite right, in my mind's eye.

There's that mind thing again. I'm not terribly sure if I've still got mine, when it comes down to it. Why can I still string words together, when I have such difficulty forcing them past my throat, barely able to form my lips around the sounds?

Ah, we're stopping again. Sam brings the water, and as I try to sip some, my stomach rebels. Wrenching, wracking heaves bring nothing but bile up, but it's not stopping. I feel hands holding me so I don't choke more than I already am... Sam? Merry?

Bright darkness rings my vision, and I hear softly, in the distance, perhaps, the piping call that I have come to dread. I bury my face in Sam's cloak, and curl into a tight ball. He holds me, and I hear Merry calling for Strider, but his voice is sounding stranger and stranger, and far away...

We're moving again. How much time has passed?

I can't properly feel most of my left side now. The hot throb of my pulse carries with it the stinging cold thread of the seeping pain in my shoulder, carries it all through me. My skin crawls with it, my body shivers and convulses, alternately allowing the intrusion and railing against it. What day is it?

The ground is cold. The fire seems cold. Can nothing warm me? I hurt. Oh, I hurt. I wheeze for breath, and realize that I'm unable to speak. Only the echoing wail of the wraiths escapes my lips as I gasp for air which slithers into my lungs like liquid ice.

And they answer me.

A few dark shapes hover near me... but they're full of concern and kind words. Merry? Pippin? Is that you? Why are you shadows?

Two torches flare nearby, and then move off into the forest. They seem so feeble and pale.

No... please, no. I'm holding on, really I am. It's just too much, I can't stop it. And it's been so long... another wail is building in my chest, and I can't hold it in. And now I know there is something worse to listen to than the wraiths' taunting calls... their cruel laughter. They may have been men once, but now they rejoice that one so foolish as to deny them the Ring will bend to their will and its Master. Another chill races from my shoulder down my spine, lodging in my knotted gut and coiling there.

Please, someone, anyone, talk to me. I can't bear just to listen to them, not and still hang on. Please, Sam...

He's suddenly back, and has taken my clammy hand into his own warm dry ones. And he's talking... bless you, Samwise Gamgee, I will never forget this favor, as long as I live...

I do live. I draw breath still. The wraiths, neither living nor dead, try to drive that thought from my mind. My mind is my own, you twisted and bitter things, with your horrid screaming black steeds, and your terrible black armor and cloaks, flapping and grasping at the wind. Bilbo's stories never warned me about things like this... but Bilbo never had Sam along to help face them. Or Strider, or Merry, or Pippin...

Ah, Bilbo. I wonder if you'll ever hear about my Adventure? How will it end? Somehow I doubt you'll even hear about this. You never did tell me how your book turned out...

That idea starts a wry chuckle, which probably wasn't a wise idea. It never reaches my lips, instead turning into a hitching wheeze, and a wave of flaring pain washes over me. Darkness is all around... Sam, I can't feel you any more...

A swirl of blackness engulfs me, but there's a light, far off now, but calling me. Calling me home to the light. I've nearly forgotten what light should feel like. The colors of darkness seem so much more vivid now... though I vaguely remember that darkness shouldn't have colors at all.

But I trust that voice. I've got to do this. It hurts, but the light is there, if I can just reach it. And she's there, calling. I'm coming... I won't call out, it'll come out a wailing, hooting wraithcall. But I'm coming.

An Elf. I should have known. Only that kind of voice, that language, could reach me in the dark place I've been falling toward. Well, Sam, you always did want to see the elves. Maybe we're close to Rivendell?

Ah! A quiet gasp and I'm floating high above the ground. No, not floating. On horseback. Oh...

Then she's behind me and we're flying.

I hear her voice, and some part of me understands. We fly, we flee, but she is not afraid. I will try. Please, let there be help up ahead, I find myself slipping farther as each hour passes, and I drift dizzily at the world's edge.

Please...

Please, don't let them come any closer. They had followed at a distance, why now have they come so near? I grab hold as tight as I can, but their calls consume me. I can't help but turn to look... I've screwed my eyes shut as tight as I can, but it doesn't matter. I still feel them, their want and their hunger grasping for me. I know they're right beside me, and I can't help but open my eyes to see.

Dark shapes on dark steeds, blackness swallowing the day, I know them to be thus. But that is not what I feel, that is not what I hear. I see dazzling white, burning black, torn holes in the very air. And I feel their calls, engulfing me, whipping past my face, more chill than the most bitter cold I could have imagined. They will have me, and they will enjoy it.

Ah, but she rides on, and she is faster than they. Enraged, they rail and scream shrill curses that rend the distance between us. I recoil, into the smallest clinging bit of hope I have left, holding on, hanging on, as best I can. I cannot let them have the Ring, but I cannot bear this...

A silvery splashing and we're crossing a river. Why is she stopping? Bright flash... she's drawn a sword that even in the shadows glows with a clarion light. I rouse myself to see... what will they do? Will their threats and their taunts come to this, here? They will claim me and claim me forever, if we cannot stand against them.

But it is all I can do to face them, much less to resist in more than thought. I feel their triumph as they wade into the water. I will at least meet this without flinching. I'm sorry, Gandalf, I tried. I really tried.

Her voice begins with a whisper, which then grows to thunder. What is this? My vision clouds, and flickering between darkness and dim light, I see shapes in the river mist. White light and water droplets raging against the darkness. The roaring tumult of colors and thwarted rage is too much. Too much. I close my eyes, but that does not block out the chaos swirling around me, and the quieting rumble of water on rocks does not diminish my resulting crashing wave of nausea. Lost in the maelstrom, I feel some part of me try to follow them. No, please, I don't want that, but I'm drawn out, stretched and pulled anyway.

I feel the solid ground beneath me at last. Something that doesn't swirl or twist or entangle me. Ah, that's better. But it still hurts, and the pain is growing. I try to tell her...

I'm sorry. I tried. Please, finish what I cannot. I cannot do this, cannot bear this, and the Ring must be taken to safety... please, it hurts...

Her eyes betray the truth of it. I've made no sound but the wraithcall, and the sound of my own voice chills my soul. Her arms around me, I feel more than see the light. And she weeps.

Only in legends is the power of Elven tears spoken of, and they must fall short of the truth. I am nearly gone, and she stays me. She embraces me, and holds me here in the light. I do hear you, fair one. I heed you. And I do not give up. I just have so little left, I must close my eyes... the darkness slithers around me, but I cling to the sound of your voice, and the light of you.

I will not willingly follow the wraithcall, though it take my last thought and my last breath. Please help me.

**Author's Note:**

> My second LOTR fanfic.


End file.
